


Beat Me Daddy Eight to the Bar

by Bohemienne



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: ...But Is an Anal Virgin, 1930s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, D/s for Brooklyn Boys who have no idea what D/s is, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Jealous Bucky Barnes, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Kink, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Queer Brooklyn, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve Rogers is a little shit, Sub Steve Rogers, Top Bucky Barnes, Undernegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8646430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: Steve stalked toward him, his body tight. The anger felt good, it felt cleansing, burning all the poison of yearning that had been building up in him. But even as he loved the way Bucky looked when he was angry, he hated that he couldn’t tell Bucky the truth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Found this in my drafts folder, already 80% written. Figured I might as well finish it, because everyone needs more pre-war Stucky in their lives, especially me. Happy Thanksgiving!
> 
>  
> 
> Title is from a 1930s/40s pop standard (my favorite version is by The Andrews Sisters). Sadly this fic contains no beating, daddy kink, or bar/movie theatre sex, though I somehow have fic for all four of those scenarios... Not sure what that says about me...

Bucky really had no right to be angry, considering it was all his fault in the first place.

Bucky’d been the one insisting they take the Moskowitz sisters on a double date, after all. It wasn’t Steve’s fault that Ruthanne took one look at him outside the nickel theatre, said “Forget it,” and turned right back around for home. It wasn’t his fault Esther, who was supposed to be Bucky’s date, spent the first ten minutes of the evening apologizing for her sister’s rude behavior. And it sure wasn’t his fault that as soon as Esther learned that Steve was taking art classes, she couldn’t stop gabbing with him about Kandinsky and Chagall and all the sharp-edged illustrations coming out of the Bauhaus school while Bucky slurped at his ice cream float with a scowl.

“Well, thanks anyway, fellas,” Esther said, after Steve and Bucky both walked her back to the Moskowitzes’ brownstone. “I sure did have a swell time.”

And when Bucky leaned in to kiss her cheek, she planted one on Steve’s cheek instead.

So Bucky had no right to be angry. After all, it was a lady’s prerogative to decide.

But Steve didn’t mind. He liked the shape of Bucky’s anger. He liked the way it narrowed his eyes into something dark and stormy, and made all his movements sharp. Anger pushed Bucky’s lower lip out, already ripe as a berry, and changed his profile into something chiseled that Steve couldn’t help but sketch. Not where Bucky could see, of course, since that’d just set him off all over again. But Steve didn’t mind when Bucky was angry.

He didn’t even mind when Bucky was angry at _him_.

 

*

 

“So you gonna take Esther out again Friday night?”

Steve looked up at Bucky over his bowl of leftover stew. Bucky hadn’t showered yet after his supervisor shift at the packing plant, and the metallic tang of blood hung around him, sickeningly sweet. Steve never could make up his mind whether he loved that smell or hated it. It made him think of Bucky, though, so it couldn’t be all bad.

“Dunno,” Steve lied. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Bucky set down his spoon with a clank.

Steve flinched and looked up. Bucky was watching him with his tempest eyes. For a moment, Steve felt bad for setting him off again. But in truth, it was a delicious feeling, knowing he could get that kind of rise out of Buck.

Sometimes they were both so wrung out from life, from Bucky’s long hours overseeing the plant and sorting out schedules and pay, and Steve’s stints at the drugstore and the typesetting shop, that it seemed like they hardly had time to feel much at all. All that shit Bucky’d said when he’d convinced Steve to move in with him— _we’re in this together, pal, thick and thin, we take care of each other, till the end of the line_ —it seemed so childish. They’d drifted apart, too caught up in making ends meet. And for Steve there had been other things besides.

“Supposed to be cold and wet this weekend,” Bucky finally said. “I don’t think you should be out in it.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Bucky. I’m not made of glass.”

Finally, Bucky cracked a smile. “No, I guess you aren’t. Knives and black powder, more like.”

Steve smiled back with a flutter in his chest. Angry, grinning—truth was, he liked Bucky every possible way.

“Still. I don’t think you should go out.” Bucky’s smile dropped. “Don’t want you getting pneumonia again. We can’t afford another trip to the doctor’s.”

“Wow. Such a sweet-talker,” Steve teased. He had no intention of asking Esther out again, but he wasn’t about to cop to that, not to Bucky. And seeing how days later, it was still getting Bucky’s knickers in a twist, he couldn’t resist the chance to twist them a little bit more. “Tell you what, make me a better offer, and I’ll consider it.”

“Better offer, my ass,” Bucky said with a scowl. Steve lowered his head to hide the bright flush Bucky’s words brought to his face. “I’ve gotta cover Marcel’s evening shift then. Why don’t you work on your secret canvas instead? I’ll pick you up some fresh oils.”

“Geez, Buck. Are you really that sore over Esther?” Steve asked. “What’s the big deal?”

Bucky glared at him across the table. “Please. Like I’d be jealous of you.”

“Envious,” Steve corrected him. When Bucky frowned, he said, “You’re envious of stuff you want. You’re jealous of things you already got.”

Bucky was still for a long moment, and sweat trickled down Steve’s narrow spine as he wondered if he’d pushed too far. Not least because—well, because he wanted Bucky to be jealous of him.

Because he wanted to belong to Bucky.

“Right,” Bucky said finally, stretching out the vowel. “I’d be envious of you for having Esther’s interest. Not jealous. Thanks, Merriam-Webster.”

Steve tried to shrug casually. “One of the occupational hazards, you know, working in the print shop.”

“I’m just looking out for you, is all. You’ve never been alone with a dame before.”

Bucky shoveled another mouthful of stew into his mouth, and the thick broth dribbled onto his chin. Steve’s stomach tightened as he imagined lapping it away. He imagined how Bucky’s skin would taste, salty with sweat, and how it would feel to dart his tongue against the corner of Bucky’s mouth . . .

Bucky wiped the broth away with his napkin and swallowed. “I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself by bein’ a clueless jerk, that’s all.”

Steve made a sour smile, his heart racing. He shouldn’t keep pushing, and he knew it, but just like the smell of the meatpacking plant, Steve both loved and feared the feeling of going too far. “Why don’t you teach me, then, sweetheart?”

For a long beat, Steve couldn’t hear anything but the buzz of his pulse in his ears as Bucky looked up from his stew. Then, slowly, Bucky returned his stare with a wolfish grin. “Sorry, kid. My techniques are far too advanced for a beginner like you.”

 _You’d be surprised_ , Steve thought, but kept it to himself.

 

*

 

Bucky came home from work in the early hours just before dawn Friday morning and banged around the one-room flat like a hurricane. He tidied up when he was frustrated. Steve lost himself in the sounds of the pots rattling from the drying rack as Bucky pulled them free and shoved them into the cupboard, then aggressively sorted and boxed the colored pencils Steve had left out. Steve hunched his shoulders guiltily—he’d forgotten about the pencils—but then Bucky crawled into the other side of the Murphy bed, and as the springs dipped down to accommodate his weight, Steve’s body slid toward the middle of the mattress. For a brief moment, his shoulder pressed into the meat of Bucky’s chest. Bare-chested—Bucky must have torn off his undershirt.

Bucky pulled away instantly and turned so his back was toward Steve, their usual arrangement when their sleep schedules overlapped, but Steve couldn’t stop reliving the moment in his mind. He bit his lower lip as he tried to imagine the sight of Bucky’s chest, more muscular and broader than the artist’s models and other men Steve had seen, and downy with a thin layer of hair. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d seen Bucky naked. It must have been years. Yet as often as he tried to conjure up the image—usually in the shower, teeth gritted together and one hand tight around his cock—it was getting harder and harder to visualize.

Maybe, just maybe, if he feigned sleep, maybe if he muttered some broad’s name as he did it, he could sling one arm around Bucky, graze his fingertips against the edges of his muscled pecs . . .

Steve rolled toward Bucky’s back with a groggy sigh. Curled his hand up and over and brushed his palm against Bucky’s collarbone. Instantly, Bucky went tense beneath him, coiling like a spring. It was wrong of Steve, so wrong, but Bucky would tell him to stop, surely he would, and then he’d behave himself, honestly—

“Steve,” Bucky whispered.

Steve pushed his face into Bucky’s shoulderblades to suppress a shudder as his thumb painted over Bucky’s nipple. It was firm, and Steve ached to take it in his mouth and swirl his tongue around it until Bucky moaned. God, he wanted to hear Bucky moan.

Bucky swallowed audibly. “Steve?” he asked again.

With his heart in his throat, Steve forced himself to mumble, “Esther.”

In an instant, Bucky seized Steve’s wrist, rolled toward him, and pinned his hand against the mattress. Bucky loomed over him, outlined in the watery gray dawn, but kept his body far above Steve’s: his hand clamped around Steve’s wrist was the only place where they touched, but it hurt in a way that blossomed inside Steve, just as good—maybe even better—than the ridges of Bucky’s chest and that taut, aching nipple. Steve wanted to arch up toward him, though if he did that, there was no way Bucky could miss the erection quickly building inside Steve’s boxers.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky said, not bothering to keep his voice low. His tone was bladed; Steve felt it slice against him. And even in Bucky’s fury, he felt peace. “Wake the fuck up.”

Steve sucked in his breath and fluttered his eyes as if he were coming to.

“If you’re gonna have wet dreams about your dame,” Bucky said, “go have ‘em somewhere else. _Some_ of us are tryin’ to sleep.”

And then Bucky shoved off of the bed, snatched his pillow, and hauled himself over to the couch.

 

*

 

When Steve got home Friday evening, Bucky had already left again for work. Steve pulled his secret canvas out of its hiding spot beneath the couch, but he couldn’t shake the jitters that had plagued him all day long enough to focus. He’d tried jerking off in the shower that morning, remembering the way Bucky had pinned him down. He imagined Bucky holding him in place, using the same rough voice he’d used to scold him as he kissed a trail down Steve’s throat, his collarbone, his chest, his navel . . . That was about as far as he got before he came, but it didn’t do much to alleviate the tension that coiled in his limbs.

He shoved the canvas back under the couch, laced up his shoes, shrugged into a jacket, and headed for the basement bar—the one he only visited when Bucky wasn’t around.

Unlike when he double dated gals with Bucky, Steve rarely had trouble catching a fella’s eye, even in the dingy, smoky haze. Some guys said they liked the look of him straight off the bat; others only warmed up after they chatted a bit, about art or the war in Europe or the latest jazz groups at their favorite spots in Harlem. But the best part was the effortlessness of it all. Around Bucky, Steve felt like he was constantly trapped in an intricate dance, trying to keep his yearning in check while still being as good a friend as he’d always been, and it only got even more complicated when Bucky dragged him out on dates with other dames. Here, the hard part, the truth that always caught in Steve’s throat, the one that could land him in prison if he said it to the wrong person—that was over and done with. All that was left was for him to blow off some steam.

Steve brushed his hair out of his face and sidled up to the bar. He couldn’t afford much more than a scotch and soda, but at his size, that was usually all it took. Within minutes, a taller man, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, slid onto the stool next to him and glanced at him through his lashes, one quick sweep up and down.

“You’d better be careful with that drink,” he said. “One stiff wind’s liable to blow you over.”

“Long as it’s not the only thing blowing around here.”

The man’s dark eyes glittered in the dim lamplight. “Charles,” he said, extending his hand.

Steve shook it. “James.”

Half a drink later, Steve was slumped against the tiled bathroom wall, Charles’s mouth slick around his cock. He didn’t look down much—preferred to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his jaw—but he could almost pretend that dark hair belonged to Bucky, could almost see Bucky on his knees, a firm grip on Steve’s hips, teasing and mouthing off right until the end. Oh, god, he’d imagined it countless times, but it never dulled in his mind, and with his fingers tight in Charles’s hair, his hips making tight thrusts into his mouth, with the memory of Bucky’s gruff tone and cruel grip and dark stare—

Steve came with a whimper and a sigh of “Buck” and Bucky—Charles—just laughed and wiped his mouth with a shake of his head.

“What did you say?”

Steve swallowed. “I—I said ‘Fuck.’”

“Sure, pal.” Charles stood and planted a lazy kiss on Steve’s raw lips, his mouth sweet and salty with Steve’s taste. “You tell your Buck he’s a lucky guy.”

Steve slumped against the wall as Charles left, and wished desperately that it were the truth.

 

*

 

“You been smoking, Steve?”

Steve looked up from his sketchbook to see Bucky picking through their laundry. “Of course I ain’t.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Don’t lie to me. Your shirt fuckin’ reeks of it.”

“There are lots of people smokin’ in Brooklyn. Doesn’t mean I’m one of them.”

Bucky’s mouth twisted toward one side as he regarded Steve. “All right, wise guy, so what did you get up to last night?”

Steve drew his shoulders in. “Worked on my canvas. Like you said to.”

“Really?” Bucky asked. “Cause Mrs. Goldman said she came by to ask for help with her sink again, and no one was home.”

“Geez, Buck, you working for the Third Reich now? I stepped out to the store for a few minutes, I guess, and must have missed her. What’s it matter to you?” Steve asked. “Hell, what business is it of yours what I do, anyway?”

“It’s my fucking business,” Bucky said, a growl in his tone, “when I’m the one who has to take care of your lily ass every time you get sick.”

Steve tossed his sketchbook down and bounced to his feet. “Well, I’m so sorry to fucking _inconvenience_ you.”

“You put so much energy into trying to do the right thing to make life better for everybody else,” Bucky says. “But when the fuck are you gonna take care of yourself, Steve? Christ.”

Steve stalked toward him, his body tight. The anger felt good, it felt cleansing, burning all the poison of yearning that had been building up in him. But even as he loved the way Bucky looked when he was angry, he hated that he couldn’t tell Bucky the truth. “It’s not like I get sick on purpose.”

“Sure, but there’s plenty you could do to stay healthy. Like staying out of this goddamn weather.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “And you get injured plenty on purpose, too. Pickin’ fights all the goddamn time. Sticking your nose all kinds of places it doesn’t belong.”

Steve would have loved nothing more than to show Bucky a few of those places, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“And you don’t think about me. What a fucking hassle it is to always be nursing your ass back to health. Worrying myself sick over whether you’re going to pull through, or if the medicine’s gonna be worse than the disease.”

Bucky folded his arms tight around his chest and glared down his nose at Steve. That cocky set to his jaw got to Steve every time, but now, it hurt more than usual. They really had grown apart, then. He was nothing but a big burden to Bucky, some broken thing Bucky was constantly having to patch up. Bucky saw him as just another fucking chore to deal with in between scrambling desperately for a few extra bucks to keep them afloat.

Steve should apologize. But he was too furious for that—at Bucky, and at himself for not seeing it before. So he snatched his jacket off the top of the laundry pile and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

“The hell are you doing now?” Bucky asked.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” Steve said. “Give you a few minutes to yourself without me burdening you.”

By the time Bucky started shouting a response, Steve was already out the door.

 

*

 

Steve headed toward the waterfront along the East River and leaned against the rails. Every day it seemed like some new steel frame was scaling toward the sky across the river, climbing and climbing. A whole world bustling and thriving, and yet he and Bucky could barely make ends meet.

And what if they did, anyway? Bucky’d want to find some gal to make into his wife and buy a flat for them instead. Start a family, one with no room for Steve in it. And Steve would have to try to cover the flat, or find some old lady’s house where he could rent a room. He had his art, all his little pet projects and crusades, but then what? What more could he achieve?

Without Bucky around, it hardly seemed worth the effort anyway.

Steve sank onto the wooden bench and picked at a loose thread on his jacket. The first time he realized he was in love with Bucky it was Steve’s fifteenth birthday, and Bucky had snuck him onto a construction site where one of his dad’s pals worked. They rode the rickety worker’s elevator up to the unfinished fiftieth floor, Steve’s stomach churning the whole way up, and Bucky just squeezed his hand and grinned like some wonderful secret was about to burst out of him.

Finally they reached their floor, and Bucky led him out across a railed catwalk that seemed to float above Manhattan. Steve was about sick every time he glanced down, but Bucky eased him down and helped him sprawl on the back, and there they laid, side by side, as the most incredible fireworks display Steve had ever seen in his life started up.

 _It’s all for you, Stevie,_ Bucky told him, though they both knew it was shit. _Ain’t no fella in all of New York more deserving of a show like this._

Steve turned his head to the side and watched the green and gold lights paint across Bucky’s face. And in that light, Steve realized it was a way better sight than the fireworks show. Fireworks were just decoration. What was beautiful about Bucky, his selflessness, his protectiveness, his determination to see things through—that ran far deeper than his stormy eyes and his perfect nose and his chin as sturdy as steel. But Steve wanted all of it. Wanted to protect and be protected by it. Wanted Bucky to keep pushing him to do all the things he feared, taking him to the brink, but always keeping him safe.

Well, if Bucky was going to move on eventually, then maybe it was for the best. Maybe Steve would tell him then, tell him all the truth that was eating him up inside. If Bucky was going to leave his life either way, then better that he know the truth. Better to get it over with. Stop _inconveniencing_ Bucky with his presence, his sickness, his unbearable love.

He could find a room now. If he agreed to help with chores, then maybe he could bargain his way down to something he could almost afford on the drugstore pay. Then the typesetting and design job could help cover his art school expenses, if he backed down his courseload, maybe, or stopped buying so many supplies. He’d finish his secret project and leave it for Bucky with a note taped on.

It would kill him. But it was better than this aimless wanting. It was past time to move on.

 

*

 

When he returned to the flat, Bucky was sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead with his head in his hands.

“Buck?” Steve asked, pausing in the doorway. He started to tug his jacket off, but then thought better of it as he looked closer at Bucky’s face. Bucky’s eyes were washed in red, and his jaw hung open as he worried his tongue from side to side. Slowly, Bucky pried his gaze away from where he’d been staring and turned toward Steve.

Steve glanced to the side where Bucky had been staring, and found his secret painting propped against the wall.

Shit.

“How long?” Bucky asked. His voice was shredded; raw. It stung at Steve like a skinned knee.

Steve let the door click shut behind him. For all the fear running through him, he felt an immense relief at having the truth exposed. There was no way Bucky could look at that painting, unfinished though it was, and not know Steve’s darkest truth.

“How long?” Bucky repeated. “I swear to god, Steve, you better fucking answer me right now.”

Steve’s stomach tightened. He felt a dangerous knife’s edge pressing against him, and he couldn’t help it. He wanted to lean in to it. See just how sharp it was.

“Or you’ll what?” Steve dared.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed into pinpricks as his face darkened. Steve felt his breath hitch in his chest. The last thing he wanted was to upset Bucky. And yet—and yet. Anger had a way of cleansing things, of burning everything else away. Steve had lost himself in the frenzy of a fistfight plenty of times, letting the sweet pain of his knuckles bruising and his jaw cracking dull whatever trigger that had set him off in the first place.

Bucky’s anger was a beautiful thing and Steve wanted it to consume him.

“Explain it to me. Tell me I’m wrong, Stevie.” Bucky gestured to the canvas. “ _Tell me._ ”

The order shivered down Steve’s spine as he moved closer. He stood just out of arm’s reach of Bucky. “It’s a painting, Buck. There’s—there’s nothing to tell.”

“You’re gonna tell me _that_ doesn’t mean anything.”

Steve forced himself to glance at it. For all the long hours he’d stared at it and wrestled over each and every brush stroke, the full effect of it was like a slap in the face, and he wanted to look away. He could see it through Bucky’s eyes now, and shame washed over him.

In the painting, a naked man sprawled across a field of rumpled white bedsheets, his head pointed down and his legs and feet disappearing toward the top of the frame through foreshortening. His skin, pink and beige and red and icy blue, was painted in thick, discrete strokes that built together into a muscled, sensual body. One leg bent up, unabashed, as the other stretched into the sheets, and the man’s arms were outstretched and inviting.

But it was the man’s face that had Bucky’s attention, and Steve knew it. The man’s cool blue eyes looked straight at the viewer as the playful twist on his plush lips invited them to look back. Steve hadn’t finished painting all the shades of brown and gold and dark mahogany in the man’s tousled hair, but from the shape of his nose to the cleft in his chin, there was no way Bucky didn’t know exactly who Steve had used for inspiration.

“Tell me it doesn’t mean anything,” Bucky said. “Go on. Goddamned tell me.”

Steve closed his eyes as a curious hum went through his body. He opened his mouth to lie, but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t do it. Bucky deserved the truth. “I—I can’t.”

Bucky barked a bitter laugh. “Jesus Christ. I’m a fucking idiot.”

“No, you’re not.” Steve opened his eyes again, but kept his gaze down. “I’m the moron. I shouldn’t’ve—I mean, it was stupid of me to . . .”

Steve clenched his jaw, took a breath, and then tried again. He had no way to put the years and years of pent-up yearning he felt into any sort of order, so the only thing left to do was let it all spill out.

“I shouldn’t have fallen in love with my best friend. Shouldn’t have agreed to move in with you, knowing how I felt. I shoulda told you before—before I trapped you here with me, both of us scrounging for nickels and dimes to make rent. I just—” He drew his shoulders up. “I don’t care that I’m queer, whether that’s right or wrong, but it’s not—I didn’t want to put that on you. I’m sorry.”

When Steve glanced up, Bucky’s eyes were closed. His head was resting on the back of the couch as he clenched his fingers around his thighs. Steve worried his tongue against his teeth, trying to think of something, anything more he could say. Bucky’s silence pulled at him, an unbearable tension—Steve just wanted it to snap.

But Bucky said nothing. So Steve started walking toward the dresser. He’d gather up his clothes, some of his art supplies and sketchbooks. He could find somewhere to stay tonight, surely—at one of his art school friend’s places, or the back room of the drugstore, if he had to. He could survive it for long enough until he could get a permanent room somewhere.

“Stop,” Bucky said.

A current of energy ran through Steve, and he went still.

Bucky stood up from the couch, slowly, and with fists at his sides, stalked toward Steve. His movements were sinuous, graceful, like the panthers they’d watched once at the zoo; in his gaze, too, was something predatory that made Steve throb with fear. But it was a good fear. The fear made him almost numb to the feel of his heart shattering.

Bucky came to a stop before Steve, only a small gap of space between them. His shadow enveloped Steve as it blocked out the weak amber light from the uncovered bulb overhead. Bucky’s shoulders drew forward, and at his temple, a vein danced. Steve wanted, desperately, to reach up and touch that vein. Smooth it out with his fingertips. His mouth.

God, he was an idiot. He wanted all these foolish things, and he couldn’t make himself stop wanting them, and it had ruined the best thing in his life.

“Do you mean it?” Bucky asked. Looming over Steve, his face was cast in darkness; he spoke low, his voice strained. “About . . . falling in love with me.”

Steve jutted his jaw out and looked up at him. “Yes.”

Bucky huffed his breath out. Ran his fingers through his hair, sending a single curl cascading down his forehead. “But you didn’t say a fucking word.”

“It’s against the law,” Steve snapped. “And you—you like girls, you’re always trying to set me up, and I—” Steve softened and shifted his weight. “I couldn’t risk losing you.”

Bucky placed one hand on the narrow slope of Steve’s shoulder and curled his fingers toward the nape of Steve’s neck. With his thumb, he brushed the underside of Steve’s jaw, gently nudging Steve’s face upward to look at him. Steve’s lower lip was trembling. He didn’t dare blink or breathe—he couldn’t risk shattering this moment. If it was some fragile dream, he didn’t ever want to wake up.

“I’m going to kiss you, you goddamned moron,” Bucky said. “So if you don’t want me to kiss you, you better say so right—”

Steve slung his arms around Bucky’s neck and dragged him down until their lips crushed together.

It wasn’t like kissing men at the basement bar. God, could that even really be called kissing, after this? Neither of them quite knew how to move their mouths, at first—they were lips and teeth, pressing, like this was survival. Like waging war. Bucky’s fingers dug greedily into Steve’s neck as his mouth parted and Bucky pulled Steve’s lower lip in between his. He tasted hot, smoky, he tasted like metal and hunger and Steve couldn’t imagine ever wanting to taste anything else. And then Bucky’s tongue slid over his and Steve’s knees went watery and limp and a fire flared up inside him, making his head spin—

Bucky gripped Steve’s collar to hold him upright, but quickly pulled away, and wiped the back of his free hand over his mouth. “Careful, tiger.”

Steve stared at the lush deep pink of Bucky’s lips, smiling and swollen from kissing. “Sorry—I’m fine.” When Bucky gave him a stern look, he added, “ _Honest._ ”

Bucky laughed, self-conscious, and pulled Steve against him. “I can’t believe you. You goddamn idiot.” He nosed at the crown of Steve’s head. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Steve buried his face into Bucky’s broad chest. “If you didn’t feel the same way . . .”

Bucky exhaled. “Yeah, well. I wouldn’ta set us up on so many godawful dates.”

“I liked it, though.” Steve pushed back from him, just enough to press his palm against Bucky’s chest. His white button-down was open, exposing his white undershirt, and Steve traced his fingers around the neckline of the undershirt and the soft hairs that wisped up from under it. “I liked seeing you get . . . jealous. Envious.”

Bucky curled one hand around Steve’s and held firm. “Did you now.”

Steve swallowed. Bucky’s eyes looked darker than usual, and there was a sharpness in his expression. Steve wanted to kiss him, and keep kissing him until they were both ragged and weary, but this—the moment before kissing, this question between them—he liked this, too. It felt dangerous and smelled as good and angry as gasoline.

“When you were angry, when you were focused, when I could almost believe, if I squinted and didn’t look too close, that maybe, just maybe, you felt what I felt . . .” Steve sucked in his breath.

Bucky rolled his shoulders back, still pinning Steve’s hand in his. He brought Steve’s fingers to his mouth and kissed one fingertip, then the next, working his way from his pinkie to his index finger, drawing each successive one into his mouth a little deeper until on the last, he wrapped his tongue around Steve’s finger and drew it out with a faint scrape of teeth. Steve bit the inside of his cheek as a pitiful whimper escaped him.

“You don’t let anyone on this goddamn planet push you around,” Bucky said. “Except for me. I never did understand that.”

“Because I trust you,” Steve said.

Bucky laughed. “I mean, I’m not saying you always listen to me. But Jesus, Steve. When you would . . .” He curled his hand, folding Steve’s fingers into his. “That’s when I felt like maybe, just maybe, all these things I wanted to do with you were all right.”

Steve’s heart lurched into his throat. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think over the yearning welling up inside of him. He forced himself to breathe, cursing his body when it wheezed faintly, and clenched a fistful of Bucky’s undershirt in his free hand.

“And just what is it you wanted to do to me?” Steve’s words came out hoarse.

Bucky pulled Steve against him again and propped his chin on top of Steve’s head. “I . . . God, Stevie. I don’t want to—to hurt you, or—” He let his arms drop, limp, at his sides. “It’s okay. It’s all right, pal. We can take this slow.”

“Because you think I’m too fragile?” Steve shoved back from Bucky, eyes narrowing. “Come on, Buck. I’m not some delicate rose that’s gonna get crushed if you look at me wrong.”

“All I’m saying is—we don’t gotta rush. I know you think you’re some goddamn force of nature, and sometimes you are, but if I don’t stop myself, I’m gonna—” Bucky grunted and ran his fingers through his hair. “Fuck, Stevie. I want you so bad. Always have. But it’s all right. We’ve got time, yeah?”

“You wanna butter me up like your dames. Treat me all sweet and gentle.” Steve ground his teeth together. “Like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Bucky looked away from him, stung. “I wanna treat you _better_. And I know you’re not—well, you’ve never—”

“Fuck that.” Steve crossed his arms. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

A dark look crossed Bucky’s face as he turned back toward Steve. “Steve.” Something simmered in his tone; something that knotted up inside Steve and made him dizzy. “Steve, what are you talking about?”

“You don’t know about the guys I’ve been with.”

“Steve,” Bucky growled, “what the hell are you talking about?”

Steve grinned, feral. God, Bucky’s anger felt good, like a hand around his throat, like a dagger in his ribs and a tongue thrust in his mouth. Not just any hand or tongue, either. Bucky’s. He wanted it, he wanted Bucky to show him all that pent-up jealousy and anguish that he’d been hiding for so long. And he couldn’t resist picking at this wound until it bled.

“They don’t kiss me like you kiss your girls,” Steve said, his grin whetted by the scowl on Bucky’s face. “Hands everywhere, bruising, leaving welts. Pinning me against walls.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky snapped. “Easy as you bruise, I would’ve noticed—”

“Would you?” Steve tore his jacket off and yanked at his tie to loosen it. “You’ve never gotten close enough to tell. ‘Coz while you were off necking with Rita Gonsalves, I was learning all the ways to make a man squirm with nothing but my tongue.”

Steve finished unfastening his dress shirt, pulled it off, and then tugged his undershirt off overhead. As Bucky’s mouth puckered, Steve glanced down at what he knew he must be seeing—the trail of mottled hickies along his collarbone, his breast, his navel, and disappearing into the waistband of his slacks. _Envy that_ , he thought, his chest heaving as he anticipated Bucky’s response with a delicious sense of dread.

Bucky took a step toward him, bristling. “You say you’ve been in love with me forever.” Bucky spoke with a voice as thin as copper wire. “But you let some man do that to you?”

“Several of them, actually.” Steve smirked. “Sure, I pretended they were all you, but—”

“Fuck you, Steve Rogers. You goddamned coward—”

“Y’know, Buck?” Steve met him, chin defiant. “I really wish you would.”

Bucky made a fist and reared his arm back. For all that Steve knew what a punch Bucky could pack—it had saved him ass more than a few times—he let himself imagine how it might feel for Bucky to knock him cold. But with a flare of his nostrils, Bucky forced his hand back down.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he said, instead.

Steve exhaled, relief a cool breeze in summer on his skin. Bucky’s expression was pure venom, but his voice, barely caged, sent a rush of blood down Steve’s body. He fumbled with the fastenings on his trousers, and grimaced as his hands brushed against the tip of his erection where it grew inside his boxers. He shoved his trousers and boxers both down, then crouched to wrench off his shoes and socks. After stepping out of his clothes, he stood before Bucky: a soldier at attention.

Bucky’s gaze caressed over his body, tongue darting out as he did so. But he kept his hands at his sides and his face in a dark sneer. “You want me, Steve?”

Steve tightened his jaw. “Yes.”

“You wanna be mine?” Bucky asked. “And only mine?”

Steve sighed softly, his eyes lidding. “God, yes.”

Bucky unfolded a luxurious smile. “Go sit on the couch.”

Steve blinked. “Wouldn’t the, um—maybe the bed would be—”

“That damn bed’s too loud,” Bucky said. “All those times you jerked it thinkin’ I was listening to the radio too loud to hear—they probably heard the springs squeaking up in the Bronx.”

Steve flushed deep crimson. “I didn’t—”

“Couch. Sit.” Bucky’s upper lip curled back. “ _Now._ ”

With a frisson of excitement, Steve hurried over to the couch and settled down on the scratchy fabric. His whole body was trembling as Bucky approached him with heavy, languid steps. Anger still burned on Bucky’s face, but it was honed now. He stood over Steve, lips parted, for a long moment until Steve thought the wait would kill him. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, Steve reached up to pull Bucky’s face down toward his.

Bucky snatched his hand out of the air before he could reach him, however. “Always so impatient.” He pressed their joined hands down toward Steve’s thigh and, hovering over him, stroked the underside of Steve’s chin with his other hand. “If you’re going to be mine, you’re going to have to learn to listen.”

“You know that’s not exactly my strong suit.” Steve closed his eyes as Bucky tightened his grip on Steve’s chin.

Bucky’s hand at Steve’s thigh dug into his skin as Bucky crushed their mouths together. He tasted cruel and sweet, burning like strong alcohol, making Steve dizzy. Steve drank him in like he feared he might never taste him again. With a whimper in his throat, Steve leaned deeper and deeper into the kiss, trying to hold on.

Bucky let go of his chin and, breaking the kiss, shoved Steve back against the couch. Steve’s bony shoulders crashed into the thin backing, but Bucky kept a firm hand to pin Steve in place.

“Mine.” Bucky bit into Steve’s collarbone, opposite from where Steve already bore a mark. Steve groaned and rolled his head back as Bucky sucked at the fine skin. “All mine.” He sank toward his knees between Steve’s thighs and swirled his tongue around Steve’s nipple. Steve shuddered at the intense touch when Bucky’s teeth grazed the skin. “And only mine.”

Bucky sat back on his feet and pressed his cheek against the inside of Steve’s knee. The look he gave Steve through dark lashes—icy and determined—was positively filthy, and Steve’s mind reeled with all the possibilities. How many dozens of times had he dreamed of this? How often had he jerked himself off in the shower imagining Bucky’s head between his legs? Already his dick was throbbing, so painful he feared he might not be able to last long. But if Bucky asked him, he’d find a way. He’d do fucking anything to keep Bucky looking at him like that, claiming him, ordering him around.

Bucky pressed his lips into the soft, pale skin of Steve’s inner thigh and let his wet mouth trail upward. Steve fisted the edge of the couch cushions, his hips bucking forward. With one arched eyebrow, Bucky cupped his hand around Steve’s balls and waited for Steve’s response. And sweet mother of God, did Steve give him one, his hips bucking into the air, his whole slender body tightened up like a bowstring. Holy Father in Heaven, did Steve want to feel Bucky’s mouth around him.

“Ask me for it,” Bucky said, circling Steve’s dick with his index finger and thumb. “Beg me.”

“Fucking hell, Buck.” Steve’s voice turned breathy with lust. “You got no idea how bad I want you to suck me.”

Bucky let his hot breath gust against the tip of Steve’s cock. “Not good enough.”

So that’s how it was gonna be. Steve braced himself, head spinning. “Suck me,” he said, his tone going reedy and desperate. “That filthy mouth of yours. I’ve seen you use it on so many dames. But please, please, let me feel it for myself—”

And then Bucky’s mouth cupped around him and his tongue lapped up the underside of Steve’s cock and Steve cried out, sharp and painful, as Bucky drew him deep into his mouth.

“Shit,” Steve wheezed. “Holy shit, Buck.”

Bucky glanced up at him through thick lashes as he hollowed out his cheeks. One swirl of his tongue, and Steve’s head went spinning. All the fire that had been building up in Steve’s belly was rushing through him, threatening to pour right out of him, and for all he prided himself on his stamina when he was with those other guys, he’d never prepared himself for the filthy, gorgeous, perfection that was Bucky Barnes.

“Buck,” Steve moaned, tangling his fingers in Bucky’s dark hair. “Buck, you feel fucking amazing.”

Bucky slid his mouth off of Steve’s cock with a lewd, sloppy _pop_. “Better than all your other guys?” The sneer on his face brooked no humor.

“God, yes.” Steve ran his fingers deeper into Bucky’s hair, back and forth, then tightened his grip. “C’mon, Buck, all I ever wanted was you.”

“From now on,” Bucky growled, “that’s all you’re ever gonna have. Got it?”

Steve’s belly pulled into a knot. “If you promise to give it to me—”

“Get up.” Bucky rocked back onto his ankles, then pushed himself to his feet. “On your knees on the floor. Facing the couch.”

Steve hesitated a minute, but the iron in Bucky’s tone nestled deep inside him. Weighted him with an urgency he couldn’t stand. Slowly, he stood up, Bucky’s saliva and a trail of precome dripping down his thigh, then got onto his knees and faced the couch.

“Stay put.”

Steve waited. And waited. He heard the sound of Bucky cross the room away from Steve, and then a drawer sliding open. A metal tin screwing open. Steve braced himself and lowered one hand to curl around his erection. Between his hand on his dick and the sound of Bucky unfastening his own clothes, Steve was overwhelmed.

Then a hand swatted his own away. “I didn’t tell you to touch yourself,” Bucky snapped.

Steve grinned wryly. “I’m so sorry, boss.”

Bucky answered him with a hand clamped around the back of Steve’s neck. In an instant, Bucky bent him forward, shoving him face-first into the cushions of the couch. “You gonna do what I tell you?” Bucky whispered, mouth right at Steve’s ear. He paused a moment to trace his tongue against that shell, sending a dark shiver down Steve’s spine.

“Yes, sir,” Steve whispered, into the couch.

“Good. Good boy.” Bucky straightened up from behind him, and then Steve felt Bucky’s fingers slip down the crack of his ass. “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah. Oh, fuck.” Bucky laughed, dark and smirking. With one finger, he nudged against the tight ring of muscle of Steve’s hole. “Tell me, sweetheart. Did you save yourself for me?”

Steve bit his lower lip, rocking his hips back toward Bucky’s fingers. “I, um . . . I might’ve put my fingers there once or twice.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asked. “Like this?”

And then Bucky slid one finger inside him, Steve’s muscle straining to fit him, a deep moan pouring out of his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Buck.” He pushed back against Bucky’s finger. “Yeah, like that.”

“Feels good?” Bucky asked.

“Holy shit, yes.” Steve grit his teeth. “But you doing it—it’s never been so good as that.”

“And you ain’t never let no other guy do it to you?” Bucky asked, pushing his finger deeper, all the way to a knuckle. Slowly, he curved his finger, and with a sharp cry, Steve’s head spun when Bucky’s fingertip grazed against something deep inside of him that burned and burned.

“Never,” Steve said. The honest truth.

Bucky laughed to himself. He pulled his finger free, and Steve sighed, the ache of Bucky’s absence already sharp. But then his finger returned, colder this time with something slippery, and then it wasn’t just one finger but two, and when he pushed them all the way into Steve it was like goddamn fireworks—

“You want me to be your first, sweetheart?” Bucky asked. He’d bent over Steve’s back, his mouth at Steve’s ear. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”

“Jesus, Buck. You have no idea.”

Bucky thrust his fingers deeper, and Steve groaned, burying his face into the couch. “Yeah,” Bucky said, “I think I might.”

“I need you.” Steve swallowed back a cry. “I’ve always wanted you—needed you. More than anyone, anything else.”

Bucky nipped at Steve’s shoulderblade, hard enough that Steve gasped. “Go on.”

“I wanna be all yours,” Steve said, “if you’ll have me. Please.” He shoved himself back onto Bucky’s fingers and shuddered as he brushed that place deep inside him again. “Let me belong to you.”

“Oh, you belong to me, babydoll.” Bucky curved his fingers again, and Steve had to bite down on his lower lip to keep from losing it right there. “You’re mine. Through and through. From now on, you don’t come without me telling you. You don’t mess around with anyone else. You got that, doll?”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut to make the sparks stop swirling in his sight. “And what about you? You’re the one with all kinds of girls all strung up like a strand of pearls.”

“They don’t mean nothing next to you.” Bucky slid a third finger inside Steve, and it hurt so good, burned so good, Steve was about to lose his damn mind. “If you’ll be mine, I don’t need anyone else.”

“All yours.” Steve sucked down fresh air. “I’m all yours, Buck. Always have been.”

Bucky laughed to himself. “That’s what I like to hear.”

And then Bucky’s fingers slid out of him, leaving cold and tingling pain in their wake. Steve caught himself keening, he wanted Bucky so bad. But as Bucky ran one hand down his haunches, shushed him with a tender kiss to his spine, he knew no matter what that Bucky would take care of him. One way or another.

“This is it, Stevie.” Something pressed against Steve’s hole, and with a hungry cry, he recognized it as the tip of Bucky’s cock. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll stop.” Bucky barked a cold laugh into Steve’s shoulderblade. “But I swear to god, if you don’t stop me, I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll never forget who owns you. I’ll fuck you so hard you forget every name but mine.”

Steve bucked his hips backward. “So what are you waiting for?” he snarled.

Bucky clutched both hands around Steve’s narrow hips, and with a growl, sank deep inside.

If Steve thought he’d felt good before, he’d only been fooling himself. This was a whole other plane of existence, Bucky’s heat pressed inside him, friction rubbng him raw, and even with Vaseline guiding his way, it still burned—but Steve didn’t care. It burned just right. It burned like all the torches he’d carried for Buck over years and years, and now Bucky was deep inside of him, fingers curling against his pelvis, cock thrusting in and out, in and out—

Bucky reached out a hand to caress Steve’s rump, then slapped it with a wordless cry. Steve shuddered, the pain spiking up into pleasure in a hot moment, making his own dick twitch where it pressed into the couch.

“That’s it, baby,” Bucky said. He nipped at the back of Steve’s neck, then his shoulderblade, then his spine. Sucking at Steve’s skin as he pumped his hips against Steve. “You feel like fucking heaven, sweetheart. Everything I ever wanted.” Slowly, Bucky’s hand moved forward to seize Steve’s shaft, and Steve groaned as his dick throbbed in Bucky’s palm. “Wanna make you feel so good. Want you all for my own.”

“I’m all yours.” Steve said it like a prayer. “All yours, Buck. Always have been.”

“Swear it.” Bucky drove into him with brutal force, and Steve moaned. “Swear it, Steve. That you’ll be mine.”

“I swear, Buck. I’m all yours.”

Bucky’s teeth dug into what little meat there was on Steve’s shoulder, sending another burst of fire through Steve’s gut. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long. Want you all to myself. From now on, you do as I say, babydoll.” He pumped Steve’s dick, reckless and quick. “From now on, you belong to me.”

Steve felt himself unfolding like a springtime bloom. This was what he’d been craving—Bucky’s anger, Bucky’s envy, Bucky’s determination to be in charge. “Always.”

Bucky bit him again, and his cock rammed against Steve’s spot so hard Steve forgot to catch his breath. “So come for me, sweetheart. Show me how bad you want it.”

Steve went dizzy from the mere suggestion, but Bucky’s forceful thrust was more than enough to send him over the edge. He swore, low and frantic, into the couch as Bucky’s hips locked up and buried deep into his own. Hot white pain filled up inside him, and then Steve was coming, he was drowning in a rush of sensation. So much more than he’d ever felt on his own, with the guys at the bar, with anything else combined. This was real, this was perfect, and he was lost in it—he could never imagine anything else.

Judging by the incoherent swears Bucky was pouring into his ear, Bucky felt much the same way.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky wheezed, after his grip had gone slack around Steve’s dick and he’d slumped forward on Steve’s back. “Fuck me, Stevie. Why are you so fucking good?”

Steve laughed, tired and happy, into the cushions. He was going to have one hell of a time cleaning his spunk out of the fabric, that was for sure. “You’re one to talk.”

“So sweet and good for me. Even when you don’t listen.” Bucky kissed his cheek, his neck, his ear. “Especially when you don’t listen.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“Hell, no.” Bucky laughed. “You’re much more fun that way, you little shit.”

Steve took a deep breath, relishing the feel of Bucky’s weight on top of him, rising and falling with his own chest. “I can’t tell you how bad I’ve wanted this.”

“Me too, baby.” Bucky ruffled his hair. “Me too.”

Steve clenched one fist around the couch cushions. “You meant what you said?” he whispered. “You want me to be all yours?”

“For as long as you’ll let me boss around your bossy ass,” Bucky said.

Steve laughed. “That might be a real long time, Buck.”

Bucky slid off of him, leaving a wet trail down Steve’s thighs as he did so. It was like a badge of honor, Steve thought, that feeling running down his legs. Bucky seized Steve by his hair and wrenched him upright, not so hard it stung but not particularly gentle, then turned him so they were face to face.

Steve drank in the sigh of Bucky’s red, swollen lips; his long, dark lashes; his bare skin, glistening with sweat. And it burned in him so bright it hurt. Just the kind of hurt he craved.

“I’m counting on it,” Bucky said, then leaned forward for a quick peck on the lips. “I’m counting on all our lives.”

Steve slung his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and, when his Bucky didn’t shove him away, pulled him in for another kiss, this time far less polite.

 

*

 

“Rita Gonsalves says she and her friend wanna go see that new picture show,” Bucky said, when he met Steve outside work one evening. “ _Gone With the Wind_?”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t it supposed to be a long, dumb mess?”

“Yeah.” Bucky slung one arm around Steve’s shoulder, loose and limber as could be. “Three hours, I think. That’s sure a long time to sit in the dark, ain’t it, Steve?”

Steve stifled a whimper. Already he was imagining Bucky’s hand tangled in his hair, guiding him down between the seats, between Bucky’s knees. “It sure is.”

“Course, Rita’s friend might not have no patience for a loud-mouth punk like you,” Bucky continued. “And if you go running that mouth again, who knows, Rita might storm off with her.”

Steve drew a ragged breath. “Sure would be a shame.”

Bucky scrubbed his knuckles over Steve’s hair as he steered him down the street. “So what do you say, Stevie? Shall I tell them yes?”

“I think it’s up to you, Buck.” Steve looked up at him, eyes heavy and dark. “Whatever you say goes.”

Bucky flashed him a grin, tongue running against the edge of his teeth, his mouth all ripe and juicy with a thousand sins Steve was dying to commit. “You sure about that?” Bucky asked.

Steve returned the grin. “Go on. Tell me what you want from me.”

And with that filthy mouth pressed up against Steve’s ear, Bucky did.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Come cry about sad grandpa supersoldiers with me on Tumblr!](http://starandshield.tumblr.com)


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